Information

Publications

The following story is a personal testimony of a woman in Somaliland. It documents the sexual discrimination and abuse she is faced with.

It is a harrowing tale of a woman who is denied access to education, information, discourse or skills that would enable her to yield an element of control over her own life and future.

The Barako project was established as a response to the recognition stories such as this being the reality and norm of many women’s lives in Somaliland.

My name is Hibo and I am from Las Caanood. I have four brothers, and as a child I was always busy with housework while my brothers spent their time playing or studying at school. My chores consisted of cooking, washing the clothes, cleaning the house and shopping in the market. I never had a minute to myself; no-one helped with the housework nor was I allowed to be educated like my brothers. I was never allowed to eat when the boys ate; I had to eat their leftovers. Added to these misfortunes, I was constantly criticised, bullied or beaten when I couldn't cope with all the work that I had to do. Due to all this suffering, I hated my family and life in general. At the age of sixteen, with no-one to turn to, I was forced to go out into the unknown.

One day I went out pretending to be fetching charcoal from the market, and I fled on foot from the town. I spent two days on the road between Las Caanood and Hargeisa, hiding from other travellers. On the third day, as I was hiding, I met a nomad man, and he raped with me a dagger. When he had finished, he left me bleeding heavily and, in addition to this horrific experience, I had not eaten or drunk anything since I left my home.

After some time I met some travellers, on their way to Hargeisa. They saw my suffering, and I told them the terrible thing that had happened to me. The women in the traveller's party took me to Hargeisa, while the men traced the footsteps of the nomad who had raped me. When they found him, they talked to him for a while without letting him know their intentions. They calmly inquired his name, where he was from, information about his family and so forth; the nomad suspected nothing and answered all their questions. The travellers went to tell his father about what he had done to me. The father agreed that elders from his family and elders from my family should meet in Hargeisa, along with some mediators.

My father was sent for and the meeting was arranged, but I was suffering from infection and tetanus, and had to be treated in a clinic in Hargeisa. At the meeting, both families agreed that I should be married to the man who had raped me. The man's father asked if I could return to their home immediately, but they would delay paying the dowry to my family until the following year. My father agreed to everything, without my consent, as I was in the clinic.

I went with my new husband - the man who raped me - to his village, as I had no other choice. When we arrived, his family gave us small portion of their livestock, and we built a small hut. This was the beginning of a new and difficult experience and a completely different life to the one I had known in Las Caanood; it was even harder than that had been. It was the first time I had ever been to the countryside, apart from the two days I spent travelling to Hargeisa.

It was very hard for me to adjust to village life. I had no idea how to speak to men; I did not know how to milk the sheep or the goats; I could not cook the country food; I could not even build a hut. I was constantly depressed, and my in-laws did not help me at all. Morning sickness - as I had become pregnant quickly - added pain and pressure to my tragic existence at this time. My husband did not care; he would threaten me with harsh words and accuse me of putting on an act. His family encouraged him to beat me, so that I would be forced to accept my situation. It is normal for a nomadic man to be difficult with his wife and children. Those who show compassion, understanding or respect are seen by others as weak and unmanly.

I gave birth to a baby girl with great difficulty, and, after being cut with old instruments, I was weak and sick. Two months later, my husband told me that, since I could not get used to the nomadic life and could not help him, he would divorce me in the nearest town before he had to give a dowry for me to my family. I agreed happily, and prepared to leave the village to go back to my parent's house. I begged my husband for some money to buy food on the journey, as I was breastfeeding our daughter. He was scornful and said, 'now you are a divorced woman with a baby, you are worthless. No living fortune will go with you; take something from the dead animal skin.'

I left the countryside and took a lorry to Las Caanood. When I arrived, I was shocked to find that my mother was dead and my father had married a woman who hated my mother. I told my story to my father and he replied that he could not see me. I asked, 'what do you mean, you can't see me?'
He replied, 'you are as worthless to me as those camels which could have been your dowry to me became worthless to you. So leave me alone; from now on you can do what you want.'

Now I had no home and no mother, so I decided to stay with an elderly poor aunt in her small hut, while my daughter grew stronger. When she reached her first year, I went out to work as a housemaid for rich families, although it was difficult as many families did not want a housemaid with a child. I tried to relive the pressure on my aunt by renting a separate hut.

One day, I went out to work with my child on my back as usual, so that I could breastfeed her when necessary. The family would not allow me to bring her into their house, so I was forced to leave my baby alone in the hut all day. One day, while I was at work, the hut caught fire with my daughter inside. I came back and found her burnt corpse, and something inside me snapped. Now I live as a destitute and mad woman.

Link to:
International Project - Barako Family Health and Education Centre

Other Stories:
Poems by older women's counselling group
Somali Folk Tales
Stories written by children of KIPP